Kite.

Someone's ichor reckons flow, 

a damask laden, bathed in echo

n' as summer's intrigue begins to choke, 

your vanishing voice brings helpless sorrow.

For I'm equally incapable,

whittled in pickled merriment,

the cigarettes reek mire thin, 

simmering films with charred confidence.

Aren't you adept? Wouldn't you help?

Or construct ire, soaked in skin.

In thin misprint, evoking carious squint,  

now slain within this abandoned hint.

Cede.

Chide, don't side with them;

a broken bone, stress rustling thin.

But you slide against the wind,

incurious, woebegone within.

For they ascertain, in disquietude,

a prelude, as you'd be left to rue.

Now lets simmer away, all choler and ire,

an entire mire  inculpating them.

Even then, isn't to err only human?

Aren't we betoken to railroad and win?

Or do we delicately surrender?

To them, for them to make the most of it...

Muffle.

Hello inspiration! Where'd you melt away?

In a fleeting second, with callow innocence;

your redolence swaying, slaying these verses tense,  

and tacit lines wrapped - rapt in unfinished sentences.